


A Real-Life Cowboy

by acceloraptor



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, a fic about horse riding?? ?, please forgive the silliness, the idea sounded better in midnight, there will probably be shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceloraptor/pseuds/acceloraptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing McCree is ashamed to admit, it's that he has never ridden a horse in his life. Hanzo has, as part of his training in the Shimada Clan. He somehow gets convinced to teach McCree the fine art of horse riding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Real-Life Cowboy

The carrier dropped them off by a snow-peppered landscape, empty save for a worn but sturdy house. McCree dug his hands into his pockets, already feeling his solar-powered body struggling.

They had driven for several hours from Krasnoyarsk, Russia. The team were tasked with finding dormant omnics that scattered the region; an easy mission that offered a much-needed reprieve from their otherwise busy schedule. Many identified omnics were built for helping on the farm, and as such, posed no real threat. Regardless, there had been reports of disappearing cattle and farmers. Overwatch was sent to quell their anxieties by gathering and re-positioning the omnics, or neutralise them, if the need arose.

As such, the assembled team was a small one; Mercy, Mei-Ling, McCree, Tracer, Hanzo, Zarya. Against the snap of a still-chilly spring wind, they made their way towards the house.

“There’s something about the cold air that feels so _refreshing_ ,” after a pause, Mei blushed slightly, “look at me, talking about the weather again.”

“ _Da_ , I agree — on that the air feels nice, but not the other; no need for worry,” Zarya flashed a grin.

Mei smiled back, and they continued. Upon reaching the house, the face that greeted them from the door was a welcoming one. An old man, weathered and creased from hours in the sun, but in such a way that folded his face in an upwards turn.

“ _Dobro požalovat'!_ Welcome! Please, come in.”

Zarya stepped in, and spoke in rapid Russian with the man. When finished, she turned to them and said, “Leonid is happy to accommodate us for the few days we stay. He is grateful for what we have done, and asks for no hesitation in asking for favour.”

The team bubbled as they exclaimed their thanks. McCree dropped his travel bag, and sighed happily, for he was _warm_.

 

———

 

Their dinner of cabbage soup sat in his stomach comfortably, and any shred of cold he might have felt prior was thoroughly chased away. By the time they hit their second shot of vodka, the talk became animated and Angela’s calm but steady eyes watched them.

“He turns to me. _Priyátel’_ , my balls will drop off waiting for saké to warm —”

Mei giggled, her face aflush.

“— so he puts it in microwave —”

“ _No._ ” Hanzo’s eyes widened in genuine horror, causing McCree to chuckle. The archer had become increasingly involved with the team with each passing mission, and it elicited pride, like watching a stray cat warming up to its new family.

“ _Da_ , yes! He puts it in microwave for one minute! You know what happened?”

“BOOM!” Her impressive arms sweep out in effect, and Mei is practically in tears.

“Love, I need to ask you an important question; was he absolutely, incredibly _smashed_? Or just an idiot?” Lenna bumped McCree’s shoulder as she laughed.

The talk continued, and McCree zoned out, feeling a little stifled. He stood up — Angela flashed him a look. In answer, he tapped his pocket where the lighter sat. She frowned but it held no hostility. _I know, I know_. He gave a brief smile of gratitude before making his way out.

He didn’t anticipate the _whoosh_ of air as he opened the door, momentarily closing his eyes to savour the face-numbing chill. A soft click of the door drowned out the chatter and snuffed out the yellow glow, leaving him shivering in the deep-dark. 

His muscles relaxed; this here was something familiar. In front of him stretched an untouched wilderness, accompanied by nothing but his own very thoughts. With a bit of imagination, he placed himself as the outlaw on the run - always on the run - desperation and what-ifs shaping his mind and body. The thought brought him an all too familiar weariness. _Funny how things work out._

McCree wouldn’t replace his new-found family for anything in the world. Yet. There were some things that were etched into his bones. Born from the fragile, impressionable moments of childhood; there was an aching sense of _belonging_ he felt within the wild, basked in solitude. McCree chuckled, and chided himself for being a damn romantic.

He drew out the lighter and sparked it against his cigarillo. Leaning against the wall, head gently nestled in his scarf, he smoked until the indoor noise quietened to late-night ramblings. 

McCree’s posture straightened when he heard the door creak open, the artificial light straining his eyes. Turning his head, he registered Hanzo with a mild surprise.

“Howdy,” he drawled, “need somethin’?”

The archer briefly looked at him with indifferent eyes, before resting his elbows against the verandah’s fence. Somehow, the thick, ventilated clothes made him look smaller than usual. 

“No.” 

Sharp, like his arrows.

_Well alright, then._ McCree leaned his head against the wall and felt the cold, sharp bite of stone brick against his scalp. The sounds of plates being gathered could be heard from inside.

Hanzo eventually broke the silence, “Winston finished analysing the data, gathered from our recent month of training. Lena said something about it that might interest you.”

“Oh?” McCree turned his head to look at the archer. His eyes were far-away, body language closed off. The fact that he could never quite read Hanzo’s intentions was a point of nervousness that nagged at the back of his mind.

“It was found that you naturally fare better with short-range accuracy, and I with long-range accuracy. I suspected this might be the case,” he said, “which means we will need to find a different skill to contend on.”

_A different skill?_

Oh.

McCree grinned wolfishly as the implications dawned on him, “hold on a second. You ain’t just saying that because I beat you on overall accuracy by two percent are ya? ‘Cus that’d be an awfully low blow, ‘specially considerin’ the fact that I just needed one more win to beat your score,”

Hanzo shifted to look at him — his stare brooked _don’t you dare._

“Placing myself as a _better soldier_ than _you_ for the month.” McCree preened at the look Hanzo gave him. _If he insists on being a pain in the ass, then I will, too._

Hanzo snapped back, “it is a logical course of action. Comparing our accuracies in such a biased situation would be equivalent to comparing a fish and a fly in their ability to swim.”

Against his better judgement, a stubborn refusal to lose pushed him forward.

“Naw. Y’know what I think?” an idea formulated, and a small thrill went up his spine, the kind one gets when overlooking a cliff, and a small voice whispers _jump_ , “I reckon,” he swaggered towards Hanzo — the dragon, a creature untamed, capable of maiming him then and there — “that you’re a sore fucking loser.” The last words were delivered as a mocking growl, right next to his ear.

For a second, Hanzo’s hand twitched, and McCree tensed himself for the blow. Instead, Hanzo leapt back, face flushed — his lip briefly curled back in a snarl before settling, seeming to control himself. “It is already done. Lena has conceded my point, and your score has been reset. Which leaves us with four days to find the final task to contend on, before the month is over.”

_Fuck that._ “Well what else is there? We’ve already been tested on all manners of endurance, strength — I sure as hell ain’t gonna arm wrestle you —”

“Horse riding.”

_What?_

“What?”

“The farmer has horses. I’m sure he won’t mind lending them to us. A horse race will test our lower body strength and endurance — a worthy sport.”

All of a sudden, McCree regrets his competitive streak. _Their_ competitive streak. The house was quiet; their team members must have turned in for the night.

“I —” McCree uncharacteristically struggled for words, and Hanzo raised a brow. _I bet the bastard practiced that_ , “I’ll put it plain for ya. I can’t ride. Never ridden a horse before.”

The silence was a pointed message. McCree could feel his face redden by the second.

“And here I presumed every Texas cowboy could ride — ”

“— I ain’t from Texas—”

“— However I seem to be mistaken.” Hanzo gave a weary sigh, “brother would be disappointed to hear of this.”

The last point caught him off-guard; it came out of nowhere, and was said with such genuine feeling. McCree sputtered in hot indignation. _Look here buddy, I ain’t some icon to be paraded or judged at —_

“Obviously, we cannot have this. Considering there are no other viable ways to test our strength, I must teach you. I will take into account your skill by the end of practice, and adjust the test accordingly.” Hanzo’s eyes were steely, all signs of his initial flustered state gone, “do you agree to this condition?”

McCree gaped; he was an idiot, of course he was an idiot, to ever consider that he had the dragon pinned. It was Hanzo that had been doing the circling, patiently watching his prey. To refuse would be an unforgettable dent on McCree’s pride. They both knew this.

He gave an easy smile that he certainly did not feel, “if you’re so sure, I accept.”

Hanzo smiled back, but for all the wrong reasons — his teeth glittered in the moonlight, and McCree suddenly realised how cold it was. “Very well. I recommend we train early, before our duties to Overwatch call us. I will meet you by the stables at 0600.”

McCree’s smile was starting to stiffen, “gotcha. At 0600, by the stables.”

Hanzo nodded in way of good bye, and made his way back into the house. McCree watched the retreating figure, and hoped the man’s intention to train him was born out of _good-natured camaraderie._ He angrily squashed and tossed the cigarillo to the ground. A pause, then — picked it back up. McCree cursed his Deadlock days, and the habits he picked up there.

 

———

 

The morning frost was unforgiving, but the feeling in his stomach was worse.

If Hanzo was going to play his game, then McCree was determined to go along; he would not give him the satisfaction of winning. He considered himself an expert bluffer in hiding weaknesses or uncertainty.

He was feeling this keenly as he made his way towards the animal. Besides recognising that it was a palomino thoroughbred, he had no knowledge whatsoever in handling it. His mind unhelpfully fixated on its bulk, and the muscles that rippled beneath.

“Hey there big fella.”

He held out a hand as he saw Hanzo do. The horse reached to sniffed at it, and McCree tentatively patted its head. Right. He cooed soft nonsense as he placed the saddle pad, then the saddle itself on the horse, which was standing mercifully still. His actions were awkward from cold-stiffened hands. He strained his mind as he tried to remember the sequence of actions Hanzo had taken.

After a bit of adjusting and tightening, he picked up the bit — and saw the animal’s ears flatten against its skull.

_Aw darlin’, don’t be like this._

Dogged resolve pushing him, McCree ignored the prickle of fear and approached it. The horse had other ideas, shifting itself out of his reach, causing it to bump noisily against the sides of the stable. 

“What’s going on?”

McCree cursed under his breath. Hanzo stood next to him, his expression as unimpressed as ever. Despite the early start, his hair was meticulously groomed and tied into a ponytail. McCree felt like a stray mutt in comparison.

“He ain’t impressed with what I’m tryin’ to do.”

Hanzo held out a hand, and McCree wordlessly handed him the bit. Without hesitation, the man approached and applied the gear to a very still horse. McCree worked his jaw. _That traitor_. After a quick check-over, Hanzo led the animal by its reins towards the field where a second horse was waiting. McCree followed behind.

After a while, Hanzo turned his head, “perhaps you already know, but horses are sensitive to their rider’s emotions. Take care you don’t confuse it with an emotion like _fear_.”

He met the glare squarely, “oh, I know. You don’t need t’ worry about me, Hanzo.”

Hanzo continued to stare, and before McCree could try and decipher the flash behind his eyes, he turned his head back. “Good.”

Hanzo lead them to the centre of the field.

“Riding a horse is straightforward. You hold on with your legs, not your arms. Tap its sides with your foot if you want to go faster. Pull the reins for the opposite. Which reminds me —”

McCree barely managed to stop himself from jumping when, in one fluid motion, Hanzo shifted to rest on his knees, seeming to inspect the gunslinger’s legs.

“Wh- you alright there, partner?” He could unwittingly feel his face redden from Hanzo’s close proximity, which was made worse by his silence. _Good god, get your head out of the gutter, Jesse_. After a pause, the archer pushed himself back up again, and went about dusting himself from the dirt on his knees. Then his hands. The motion was infuriatingly methodical; McCree gritted his teeth.

“Your spurs are dull enough; you won’t need to remove them,” he said finally, “which must be fortunate, for a man like you who places much confidence in his fashion sense.”

McCree squinted at Hanzo’s carefully neutral expression. Was… Was that _sarcasm_? He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Most importantly, invoking any more anger meant putting situations worse than they were.

“I s’pose that’s one way to put it. I’m glad to hear it,” he drawled.

Hanzo regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “To get on, use the stirrup to help push yourself up.”

In demonstration, Hanzo did as so. Despite his stocky build, he scaled up the horse easily. While Hanzo was busy re-familiarising himself, McCree took a moment to watch the archer.

Like a well-worn memory, McCree held a good picture of the way Eastwood rode his horse. The head just obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, lending to an air of irresistible mystery. An image that spoke of lonely desert nights and a pursuit of cold, thankless justice. 

Hanzo could not have been in stronger contrast. His head was held high, all regal with sharp, refined angles. His posture was deadly-straight, and he and the horse were unified in their hidden power of sleek muscle. An irresistible image, in a completely different way.

McCree felt his mouth go dry. He looked at his horse which stood by innocently, and sent a silent prayer of _don’t fuck this up._ Resting a foot on the stirrup, he clumsily but successfully hoisted himself up on the horse. 

Realisation; he never truly understood how tall a horse was, until it came to sitting on it. McCree regarded himself to have a healthy fear of heights, just like any other person would. His head spun slightly from the tasks ahead.

Hanzo trotted back to where McCree stood. “Try getting him into a walk.”

McCree hummed in agreement, and prodded the sides of the horse. Sure enough, it broke into a slow walk. He gave a wide smile at this, feeling a thrill of excitement run through him. “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” He shouted.

Hanzo’s lips twitched in a smirk. “Good, because we will be trotting, soon.”

The gunslinger straightened from a new-found confidence, the morning frost all but forgotten.

 

———

 

By the time McCree was with the team for breakfast, it took every ounce of his concentration to walk without an affected gait. He winced as he sat down, and regarded the toast in front of him with an affronted expression, as if it had offended him somehow. Hanzo quietly sat by the opposite side, looking distinctly unaffected. Mei and Zarya were huddled over a phone, quietly giggling. Lena wolfed down her breakfast, and as such was oblivious to all.

Not only was McCree physically exhausted, but mentally as well. 

_“Mastering the trot is a matter of timing. You must rise and fall to the rhythm of the horse. This will especially test the strength of your thighs.”_

_McCree was paying attention, he was, until thoughts that pondered weather Hanzo’s thighs were as muscled as his arms derailed him._

_I bet he could crush a man’s neck with that, if he so wished._

_McCree blushed, both horrified and elated. This was the second time his mind derailed him, and he didn't want to know how many more times this would happen — while horse riding, of all things._

“You alright, Jesse?” It was Dr. Ziegler, bless her soul; it was impossible to hide anything behind her well-trained eyes.

“Yup. Fine as a fiddle, doc.” At this, Hanzo gave him a knowing look, and McCree barely restrained himself from kicking him under the table. 

Her eyes flitted between the two, and her brows knitted together - but said nothing.

Eventually, Lena paused from eating her third toast, to say, “Winston relayed to me what we’ll be doing today, loves.”

(“Lena! Swallow your food,” chided Angela. Lena gave a sheepish grin, before continuing.)

“After running the satellite images through his programs, he’s found the co-ordinates of possible points of interest. We’re to investigate them, and make sure everything is fine and neutral.”

“Most will be accessible by our van, but some, especially lodged by the rocky hills, will require walking. Long story short; rug up.”

Zarya laughed, loud and booming, “good! I look forward to putting the tin cans in their place.”

McCree suppressed a sigh. The day was just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I've only ridden horses like... twice. If you spot any inconsistency, please do tell!


End file.
